


Memory More Perfect than the Universe

by dragonimp



Series: Turning Points [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley was an Archangel before he fell, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Stuffed with headcanons, why Aziraphale needed Crowley to fix his coat, why demons all have assumed names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonimp/pseuds/dragonimp
Summary: “If you’re wanting to know what Heaven was like back then, I’m not sure I could help you. I didn’t spend much time in the Office, after all. As soon as there were enough of us I was out on my assignment. ‘Fill the sky.’”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Turning Points [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657417
Comments: 22
Kudos: 257
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	Memory More Perfect than the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521157/chapters/53816143) of [An Angel and a Demon Walk Into a Therapist's Office](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521157/chapters/53815651)

“If you’re wanting to know what _Heaven_ was like back then,” Crowley started, making a grand gesture with his wine glass, “I’m not sure I could help you. I didn’t spend much time in the Office, after all.” He popped up from the couch and grabbed the wine bottle, refilling his glass as he prowled the room. “As soon as there were enough of us I was out on my assignment. ‘Fill the sky.’”

Aziraphale snagged the bottle from him on one of his passes and set it on the end table. He was still nursing his first glass. “How many of you were there? Assigned to the night sky.”

“Oh, lots.” He perched on the arm of the couch and took a swallow of wine, gulped far too quickly to actually be enjoying it. “Lots and lots. It was group work, y’know? Took a whole team to do a sector.” He stared down at his glass. “A score of us. At least in my team. Maybe the other teams had more or had less but we were an even twenty.”

He was on his feet again a moment later, prowling across the room. His usual loose-hipped swagger; not yet a drunken sway. “Teams and teams of us. An’ now that I think about it, every team did have at least one or two seraphim.”

“Except for yours, of course.”

“Right, except for—”

He broke off and gave him a sharp look. Aziraphale met it with raised eyebrows.

Crowley blew out a breath. “Fine. I get it.” He sauntered back and dropped down onto the couch. “Just when did you figure it out, anyway?”

“Well it wasn’t some big epiphany.” Now that Crowley seemed to have settled Aziraphale moved from his wingback chair to join him on the couch. “It was little things that added up over the years. With a few big clues.”

“Like stopping time. Just when did I tip my hand on that?”

“Pompeii.”

“Oh, right.” Crowley drained his glass and slumped into the cushions. “You were hangin’ back like an idiot, performing minor miracles to get people onto the ships. Almost got caught in that pir—pyo— _py-ro-clas-tic_ surge.”

Not swaying dunk yet, maybe, but far from sober.

“Imagine my shock when the whole thing just suddenly froze. And then there you were, chewing me out while you miracled us away.” Aziraphale sipped his wine and leaned back. “But the _first_ big hint was seeing the way you hid those children on the Ark. If I hadn’t recognized you as a serpent I never would have seen through that glamour.”

Crowley wapped his shoulder with the back of his hand. “Don’t tell me that’s _something else_ thing that _only Archangels_ can do.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “No, no. But the strength and finesse of that glamour told me you couldn’t have been a third sphere angel, and _likely_ not a second. Freezing time narrowed that down to seraphim or Archangel.”

“And—? That’s still two options, I must have done _something_ else to give it away.”

“Believe it or not, it was the way you restore objects.”

Crowley looked at him like he was trying to find the punchline. “Repairing things is nothing. You do it all the time.”

“Oh, I can _mend_ things, certainly. But it will always _have been_ broken. Humans can’t tell the difference, of course, but I can. It’s still _there_ , in the object’s essence. But when you restore something it’s as if the damage _never was_. At some point—I believe around the tenth century?—I realized that was exactly what you were doing. You were _reversing_ the object _through time_ , taking it back to before the damage occurred.”

Crowley groaned and dropped his head back. “Sssssshit. That _is_ what I do, isn’t it.”

“You don’t even think about it, do you.”

“No! It’s just—want to get rid of the damage?” He waved a hand. “Damage gone.”

“ _That_ was the final clue. The way you do it without thinking.” He took the empty wine glass from Crowley’s hand and set it on the end table. “I’m sorry, dear. I really had thought that—that you knew I knew. And I’m afraid at that point it was just simple maths. It’s not a very long list.”

“List?” Crowley’s head popped back up. “What ‘list’? I thought we were forgotten.”

“Oh the Celestial Record is still intact. It’s immutable, after all. We just can’t put faces to the names of any of the Fallen.”

“So my name’s still up there. My— _old_ name.”

“Yours, and every other demon.”

He nudged his elbow. “Simple maths?”

“Well. . . .” Aziraphale set his unfinished wine on the table. “From seven Archangels, four remain in Heaven. Everyone knows what happened to Lucifer, so that leaves two. One absent from Heaven—” He glanced up at his shelf of deuterocanonical works, then squeezed Crowley’s hand. “—And one Fallen.”

“You mean it’s a list of one.”

“It’s a list of one. Though I doubt anyone else has done the same maths.”

Crowley squirmed until their shoulders were pressed together. “I dunno. It sure sounds like I gave myself away.”

“I _did_ spend a great deal of time around you, over the span of several thousand years.”

He sighed, leaning his head back. “How come you never said anything?” he said, more curious than anything.

“Well I couldn’t imagine it would be a pleasant topic for you. And it hardly mattered.”

“‘ _Hardly mattered’_?”

“Of course.” He squeezed his hand again. “I know who you _are_. Who you _had been_ was nothing more than a curiosity.”

“Really did pick the right person to get sloppy around.” Crowley nudged him again. “Lucifer looked for me for _centuries_ , you know. And here you are, figuring out the whole thing and just—letting me be.”

“Whom would I have told?” Aziraphale slid an arm around him, smiling when Crowley relaxed into him. “Besides. I wouldn’t have wanted to put you in any danger. I liked having you around,” he teased.

“Course. Comes in handy when you need to get paint offa your coat.”

Crowley was always cool to the touch, his serpentine nature making him (mostly) cold blooded even in human form. It made Aziraphale want to bundle him up, tuck him into his arms and keep him safe and warm. For now he settled for rubbing his shoulder.

“She made us together, you know,” Crowley said after a long moment. “All seven of us. Siblings. Michael she made her head warrior, Gabriel her herald and guard. Rafael was given healing, and Sandalphon and Uriel between them got music, literature, and prophecy.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the thought of Sandalphon having anything to do with music.

“But the _first_ thing She did, before any of that, was give Lucifer the day, and me the night. Day and night. Twins, the others called us. As if we hadn’t all been made together. Lucifer found it hilarious.

“Uriel kept to themself, mostly, and Sandalphon was always . . . _Sandalphon_ . . . but I got on all right with the others. Always liked to give Gabriel a hard time but he would laugh about it, if you can imagine. He wasn’t nearly so uptight back then. Michael, too. I even got Michael to help me prank Gabriel once.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, you must tell me about that sometime.”

“Bet they’d both deny it now. If they even remember it properly—how _would_ they remember it?”

 _How would they remember me_? Is what he heard beneath those words. “If their memories are like mine, as a faceless, formless angel where you had been. Surrounding details might still be there, or the whole thing might be muddled. Either way, the details would surround a—a void.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s. . . .”

“Depressing?”

Crowley grunted.

“Well. Anyway,” Crowley continued after a moment. “Rafael was shy—I think they were intimidated by the others—but they were great to joke around with. It just took some work to draw them out. And Lucifer. . . .” He sighed. “Was Lucifer. Charming. Easy to be around. Too charming for anyone’s good, as it turned out.

“But like I said, as soon as She’d made enough of the Host, I was off.” He waved an arm. “Out _there_. ‘Fill the sky.’”

“What was it like?” Aziraphale prompted when Crowley fell silent. “Making the stars.”

“Oh, it was fun! We could get really creative. We had an outline, of course, but it gave us a lot of leeway. We must have spent half our time out there just playing around.”

He paused again. The kind of pause that meant he was working himself up for something. Aziraphale waited.

“Dunno how long we were out there. We were mucking around with time so much to get everything to specs. But we got called back just as the plans for the Garden were coming about.”

Crowley shifted, folding and unfolding and re-folding his arms. “When I got back, things were . . . things were different.” His voice was strained. “ _Something_ had changed. Everyone was tense. On edge. _I_ didn’t know what the heaven was going on, I’d been out in the field! I thought it might have something to do with this Garden and those new special animals She was creating, these _humans_ , and _boy_ did I have some questions about _that_. I just wanted to understand! They were so similar to us and yet so—so _different_ , and some of what was built into the design, it just—I just wanted to understand.”

He hunched down and pressed back, seeking shelter under Aziraphale’s arm. “ _No_ one wanted to hear it. Gabriel and Michael both gave me the cold shoulder as soon as I started asking questions. Rafael seemed scared but wouldn’t say why, just said that everything was ‘unsettled.’ The Almighty wasn’t taking an audience, so no help there. But hey! Lucifer’s still friendly! He’s still willing to chat! He doesn’t even mind my questions!”

Crowley groaned and buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale wrapped both arms around him and pulled him close, wishing there was something he could say, something he could _do_ , to ease the pain his dear friend still felt.

He remembered the time leading up to the rebellion. Lucifer had been luring angels to his side with his charm and what he professed to be “merely” questions, sowing doubt and subtly encouraging hostility toward the Almighty’s Plan. Crowley’s truly innocent questioning no doubt hit the same nerves that Lucifer had so carefully rubbed raw.

After a long moment Crowley continued, mumbling into his shoulder. “Never wanted any sort of rebellion. Never crossed my mind. Just—there I was, chatting with the one sibling who would still give me the time of day, and the blessed—damned— _thing_ just started up around me. And suddenly there’s Michael and Gabriel—” He cringed, curling in on himself. “’M not a warrior. You’ve seen me with a sword, you know how rubbish I am—I wasn’t made to be a warrior! And here’s Her two best coming right at me—coming at Lucifer, probably, but guilt by association. And I just—I couldn’t—I—I don’t know what happened next. I just remember—panic. And then the floor opened up—”

The sharp scent of demon blood made Aziraphale pull back. “Crowley—you’ve hurt yourself—” He pried Crowley’s hands away, _tsk_ ing at the claws and where they’d punctured into his biceps. “That’s enough of that.”

He pushed healing energy into the wounds as gently as he could. Crowley had admitted once that angelic healing on demons was rather like pouring alcohol on a wound. He’d worked hard over the years to mitigate it, but despite his best efforts Crowley still flinched.

“There now.” He rubbed his hands over the healed skin to relieve some of the residual burn. “I think you could leave the narrative there, dearest. We’ve been over what happened after.”

Crowley nodded, slumping back against his shoulder.

Aziraphale cupped the back of his neck. “You didn’t deserve to Fall,” he insisted. “Certainly not for the sake of _questions_.”

He couldn’t help but wonder how many other demons were like Crowley—had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, listened to the wrong person.

Eventually, Crowley sighed. “Eeehh—I couldn’t’ve stayed up there. Can you imagine it? I’d be constantly butting heads with Gabriel. With all of ’em.”

“Even so. . . .”

“Maybe that’s all it was,” he continued. “Mebbe She just tossed out those of us who couldn’t’ve gotten on in Heaven.”

“If that’s the case, I’m afraid She missed one,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Nah, you’re a great angel. ’S the rest of ’em forgotten what that’s supposed to mean.”

He sighed. “It’s kind of you to say so. . . .”

He didn’t think about his wording until Crowley flinched.

He expected the usual tirade, or at least a sharp word, but after a moment the demon just sighed and relaxed back against him. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? Can’t get on in Heaven, can’t get on in Hell . . . utter rubbish at what we were meant to be. . . .”

“I suppose that’s why we ended up here. In the middle.”

“Nn.”

Aziraphale buried his nose in Crowley’s hair, breathing in the spicy, musky scent that had become so familiar that he’d almost stopped noticing it. Had only realized just how much it permeated this space when Sandalphon had remarked that something smelled “evil.” And certainly Crowley’s scent had notes that were unmistakably _infernal_ , but to Aziraphale this particular demon smelled of . . . comfort. Safety.

Belonging.

“They call it _The War_ down there,” Crowley mused. “Grandiose word for a lot of bollocks. It was barely a battle—not even a battle. It was _chaos_. A riot.”

“I remember.”

Crowley made a questioning noise, and Aziraphale sighed.

“I . . . _was_ made to be a warrior. Like every principality, I was made to guard and defend. I didn’t question it. I didn’t question why we were training, when we had no enemy. I didn’t question when I and three others were assigned to guard the soon-to-be-made Eden, even though no one could tell us what we were to be guarding _against_.

“But . . . as you know . . . the call to arms came before Eden. ‘Put down the rebellion.’

“I asked my very first question then: If angel is fighting angel, how do I know enemy from ally? And I was told, _if they are attacking you, they are the enemy_.”

He shut his eyes, pressing his face into Crowley’s hair. “I had my answer. Poor as it was. I had my answer and I . . . did as I was told. I took my sword, the flaming sword given to me by the Almighty Herself, given to me to guard Eden, and I . . . turned it on my fellow angels. Friends— _siblings_ —angels I had _loved_. I turned my sword on them. Because it wasn’t my place to question. My place was to do as I was told. So . . . I did as I was told.” Every soldier’s excuse. He let out the last of his breath. “And—and it _was_ chaos.”

Crowley found his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back.

“I may have been _made_ to be a warrior, and I may have been good at it—good enough to get the appointment in Eden—but . . . but I learned that day that I have no taste for it.” He attempted a smile. “I—I much prefer a quiet life of words. And—and being— _soft_.”

Saying it out loud felt like a rebellion. He was rejecting his purpose, rejecting how She had made him. He had been doing so quietly for ages, for almost as long as he’d been on Earth, but putting it into words gave it intent.

“I like you soft,” Crowley said, and the simple honesty startled a laugh out of him.

“Why, thank you, dear.”

“Is that why you gave away that sword so easily? Having had to use it against. . . .”

“. . . Maybe so.”

They leaned against each other, taking comfort in the physical closeness they could now allow themselves. Crowley’s thumb rubbed against the back of his hand.

“When the floor opened up—at first I was relieved,” Aziraphale admitted. “It meant the fighting would stop. But then—then I saw what was happening. I—I realized what it _meant_. And I . . . I could only watch. It was a victory, they told us. Heaven had triumphed. Vanquished the traitors. But I—all I felt was sorrow. Sorrow and a gaping hole in my memory, where all those angels had been. It’s—it’s hard to mourn someone you know you’ve lost, but can’t remember.”

“Siblings? Any of them?”

“Three. Out of ten of us created together. I could tell you their names, and their assignments, but it’s nothing more than lines in the Record. I used to try to remember, and sometimes I—I could remember . . . bits. Fragments. Feelings, mostly. But always without a face. I could never be sure _which_ sibling I was remembering, if I was truly remembering them at all.”

“Guess that was part of our punishment. To be forgotten by everyone, while we remember everything.”

“It doesn’t seem right.”

“No,” Crowley agreed, bitterness seeping into his voice. “None of it does. None of that _whole blessed thing_ seems right. It was all part of that pox ridden _Great Plan_ and _none of it_ —”

He cut himself off with a shake of his head, grinding his forehead into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I—sorry. Sorry, angel.”

“It’s all right, dearest.”

Aziraphale wanted to tell him that anger was being expressed for both of them, but the words stopped up. It seemed he wasn’t quite ready for that much defiance.

“We didn’t know each other, if you were wondering,” Crowley was saying. “Met once, when I came over to look at the plans for the Garden. But that’s all. Just a brief conversation.”

“Oh?” He had been too afraid to ask; he didn’t want _Crowley_ to be one of the holes in his memory.

“It wasn’t much.” Crowley shifted, uncurling enough to be tucked properly into Aziraphale’s side. “No one else really wanted to talk about the Garden beyond _the Almighty’s Great Plan, isn’t it glorious_ , even the other guards. ‘I am humbled by the honor of my post; it will be my privilege to watch over the Almighty’s creation; those details aren’t necessary to my assignment’ and on and on like that.”

Aziraphale snorted. That had been the proper decorum expected of them; his own enthusiasm had been considered uncouth, and his superiors had made sure he’d known it.

“But you!” Crowley continued. “You were so _excited_ by the whole thing! ‘Look at these plants, look how _many_ there are! Look at these leaves and branches, the humans could make all sorts of things with these, don’t you think? And some bits are meant to be eaten! Look at all the different animals the Almighty has planned, all the different shapes they have. This one has wings like us, and this one _swims_ , isn’t it clever!’ You didn’t even mind too much when I asked questions, you were just happy to have an excuse to talk about the Garden.”

“Wait—wait.” Aziraphale pinched his eyes shut and tried to reach back, past six thousand years, into a fog of memory. “I _remember_ that.”

Crowley pulled away. “You—can’t. You _couldn’t_.”

Aziraphale looked into his hopeful, anxious face, hardly believing it himself. “Well I—I remember an angel who listened to me prattle on for once without getting impatient or dismissive. That never happened—I thought I’d dreamt it.”

“You don’t sleep.”

“You know what I mean. Now, let me see. A few things stuck with me. . . .” He closed his eyes again, trying to pick out solid features in the fog. “This angel said . . . said ‘didn’t it all seem a bit cruel, that all these things were made to consume each other.’ And, ‘was She just putting them down there to die?’ And I believe I said . . . oh . . . that it was meant to be dynamic. . . .”

“—And self-sustaining,” finished Crowley, his voice thin. “And ‘it wasn’t for us to question the Almighty’s design.’”

He smiled. “I did get a bit sanctimonious, didn’t I? Oh but—there was one more thing. And this is what really stuck with me: ‘ _I’m not questioning it just to question it, I’m questioning it to understand_.’”

It made sense now—those were Crowley’s sort of questions, they obviously were. Crowley who would sit and listen to him prattle on about just about anything, had been doing so since their first shared plate of oysters.

Crowley who was currently going through a complex storm of emotions, all of them writ plain on his dear, beloved face. The face Aziraphale still couldn’t match to the fog of his memory. But the rest of it—that was enough.

Aziraphale cupped his cheek. “My dear, it seems you’re just too memorable.”

Crowley laughed, ending in a sob. For a moment it looked like he might break, but after a few sniffles and choking laughs he rallied himself with a lopsided smile. “O-of course I am. I do everything with style.”

And then they were both laughing, leaning against each other on the couch.

“You know, my dear,” Aziraphale remarked once they’d both quieted. “Speaking of your old life, I almost _did_ say something when you chose the name _Lilith Ashteroth_ for our time with the Dowlings.”

Crowley laughed. “I’m hardly the only demon to use the name ‘Lilith.’ I wasn’t even the first! The humans had turned it into a title. Associated it with—all sorts of things.” He sat up. “But eeeh—yeah—it’s about as close as I can get—y’know. To my old name.”

“Mm. A bit of defiance?”

“Maybe.”

Aziraphale could hardly imagine what it would be like to have his very name be cursed—to know that the simple act of speaking it aloud would give any who heard it a weapon. According to Head Office, “to weaken Evil.” Never mind how cruel it seemed.

“You didn’t worry it was maybe a—a little _too_ close?” he asked. “After spending six thousand years keeping your head down. . . .”

“Just about every demon who’s ever used a female form around humans has used that name at some point. It came to be a bit of a running joke down below. And before you ask, no, I had _nothing_ to do with that Lilith-was-the-serpent notion that was so popular for a while. Got a good laugh out of it, though.”

“Yes, so did I,” Aziraphale admitted. A pity they hadn’t been able to share that laugh back then. “You modeled for Michelangelo, though, didn’t you?”

“Ehhhyeah, but not as a woman. You know how he was. I _did_ tempt him into that fig gesture, though. Not that he’d needed much of a push.”

“Well. I couldn’t say this at the time, but—that pope deserved it.”

Crowley laughed at that.

“How’d my—my old name end up down here, anyway?” Crowley ventured. “On the humans’ lists, I mean.”

“Well . . . every so often a human is allowed to glimpse the Record. They only ever remember it in fragments, but no doubt one of those fragments, at some point, was the names of the Highest of All Angels.”

“Huh.”

“Thanks to that conflation of terms you encouraged, though, they never get the list right. Even Gabriel gets left off sometimes. Your name gets marked down as a lesser angel, if it gets marked down at all.”

“That’s fine by me, I always hated those ranks. They make pricks like Gabriel think they’re better than everyone.” He rubbed his eyes and slumped back with a groan. “Nnnggh I need more wine.”

There was about a third of the bottle left. Aziraphale handed it to him without ceremony.

Crowley tipped the bottle back and downed most of it at a go. “Too bad there’s no middle option,” he said when he came up for air. “Between angel and demon.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale nudged Crowley’s knee with his own. “I think we’ve made one here.”

“Much to Heaven and Hell’s conssstr—conssturn—they’re both pissed at us for it.”

Definitely drunk now. Aziraphale took the nearly empty bottle from him. “Just maybe . . . that’s how we know we’ve done the right thing.” He finished off the last of the wine and set the bottle on the end table.

“Hey.” Crowley bumped his leg. “Read somethin’?”

“Oh—certainly.” He patted his knee as he got up. “What would you like to hear?”

“Dunno. Pick something. Nothing gloomy. I don’t think I could handle gloomy.”

“Frankly, I’m not in the mood either.”

It had been a bit of a revelation to discover that Crowley’s aversion to books wasn’t from a dislike of their contents but from a difficulty focusing on blocks of text. (“Oh, yeah, I probably should have warned you about the eyes,” he’d said that night, with Aziraphale’s voice. “You can focus on details if you need to, but do it for too long and you’ll get a headache. You can see color, too—to an extent—but you won’t be able to hold it long.”) Not long after he had tentatively offered to read aloud, and to his surprise and delight Crowley had accepted.

“How about romance?” Aziraphale asked now, as he browsed his copious shelves.

“Oh, sure. As long as I can mock it if it gets ridiculous.”

“I wouldn’t dream of denying you the pleasure, dear boy. Jane Austen, then?”

“Sure.”

As soon as he’s sat back down on the couch Crowley was leaning into his shoulder.

Aziraphale wouldn’t dare mention it, but now that Crowley was getting used to physical contact he was turning into quite a cuddly demon. Aziraphale was only too happy to indulge. (He suspected a bit of making up for lost time on both their parts.)

“I remember Jane. Clever girl— _wicked_ humor.”

“Yes, she was a delight.” He opened the book on his lap—a first edition, of course. One he’d gotten signed, much to the author’s amusement. He’d had to talk her out of signing it with “ _A Lady_.”

As he settled his reading glasses on his nose he couldn’t help but think of Gabriel’s condescending remarks the time the Archangel had caught him wearing them; no angel should requite a human assistive device, he’d been informed. If he had trouble with print, maybe he should just accept that that wasn’t what the Almighty had made him for. Aziraphale had quickly assured him that the spectacles were a fashion choice. Of course they were. Projecting an image for the humans. Merely fitting in.

But the truth was he _hadn’t_ been made for close work; he’d been made for looking out over the battlefield. For watching over Eden.

Perhaps his use of this little _human assistive device_ was his own quiet act of defiance.

Crowley’s head came to rest on his shoulder, and he briefly pressed a cheek to his hair before starting to read.

“’ _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife._

 _“’However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters_. . . .’”


End file.
